Real and Unreal
by Haru No Uta
Summary: Gojyo's POV of Sanzo on a rainy night. 5x3. Yaoi.


After almost 2 months of KakaIru high, I finally could put an end to this fic...

Just in case, the 'he', 'his', 'him' and 'himself' in this fic all refers to Gojyo.

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He stood with his hands in his pockets. A half burnt cigarette dangled between his lips. Masses of brick red clouds that covered the midnight sky, allowed only an occasional peek of dark blue. The densely falling rain draped everything visible from curious eyes. Nothing living was out there braving nature.

He had been staring out of the glass panes for too long and his eyes were getting tired. Blinking away the dryness from his eyes, he saw the ghost of a man in the glass returning his stare. Intense garnet eyes were fixed on his of the same hue. It had flaming locks, just like him, which was darken several shades by the gloomy weather. Half of its face, which bore the twin markings, was hidden in shadows.

He plucked the cigarette from his mouth and sighed onto the glass. The figure was veiled for a moment but returned, still staring, after the smoke had dispersed. The unrhythmical beating of charging raindrops was deafening his ears. The cigarette butt soundlessly hit the wooden floor before it was being stamped out, leaving no one to mourn for its bitter end. The ghost turned and started to walk into the rain, towards the translucent door which was floating in the air.

He was suffocating just by staying in the room. A formless pressure was choking him and he felt like he would die if he were to stay a moment longer. The attempt to break free from the stress was stopped by a tug he felt on his jacket. A light but demanding pull was all it took to stop him from surfacing and letting himself drown willingly.

He glided his eyes on what was latched on his garment, from the glassy nails embedded on the tips of long fingers, to a bony wrist, a sinewy arm and lean shoulder. The waxen skin that covered them ended abruptly in a contrasting black and emerged as an equally white neck. It seemed to be radiating a glow not any dimmer than the mess of gleaming gold.

He reached towards the grip to ease it from his jacket but got slapped away in the same old haughty manner, warning of very possible way of death if he were to go near. The same old façade that could never be strong enough take on the batters of the rain. Empty threats ignored, his hand cupped a cold cheek and traced along the cheekbone with his thumb. Newly grown stubs that scratched his palm sent a weird tingle into his blood.

He half knelt and saw purple gaze piercing through him and at the replaying tragedy beyond the confines of the walls. Something in his chest was hurting. Holding the vacant face in his hands, he almost kissed the pale lips; only to be held back by his own untimely sanity. Violet eyes were dim as they were whenever the weather works up this way; whenever nightmares haunted.

He tried to search for a light in darken purple pits, only to get himself consumed by its darkness. Self mockingly grinning, he lightly kissed between the brows of the unmoving figure and tried to stand up. He had to leave the room, he told himself. The pain in his chest was expanding. It must have been caused by his inability to breathe properly. He must be getting claustrophobic.

He was being yanked from his crouching position and had landed painfully on his knees. He had instinctively raised his arms to maintain his balance. His palms slammed onto the concrete wall. Pain shot through. He tried not to wince. Glaring at the face between his arms, he found violet eyes, not any brighter regardless of the acts of their owner, looking at him this time. The cockiness in it must have lost its way in the darkness, he reckoned.

He remained in that position waiting for what-comes-next. Impatience was slowly creeping into dim eyes. He waited. The lapels of his jacket were bunched in tightening fists. He did not want to be the first to make a move. A sudden rustle of fabric, he had heard, and his lips were being captured by a hot wetness that tasted bitter, like tobacco. He had waited. Deepening the kiss, he leaned forward and heard a soft thud as the back of the blonde head hit the wall.

He pressed down on the cool lips, grinding, kissing hard, until he tasted blood. Breaking away from the kiss, he saw deep red tainting the lower lip. The cut was just deep enough to rupture the blood vessels, yet not deep enough to leave scars. It will be forgotten once healed. His brows kneaded at the thought. He licked away the dab of crimson, and then gently sucked on the wound.

He kissed a trail along the jaw line, enjoying the tingle of his lips being scratched by the prickly stubs. A slight pull on his jacket was felt when he nibbled on the outline of an ear. He was rewarded by a gasp as he flicked his tongue behind the earlobe. Gently easing tight fingers from his garment, he kissed his way down, tasting salt on the smooth neck.

He stopped. He rested his temple against the cold wall. He could not carry on. He was breathing hard and at the same time indulging himself in the blend of sweat, gunpowder and Marlboro; a scent that he could only get to know when he was this close and only when he was being needed in such times. But, he knew it too well that it was not him who was being needed.

He tried hard to force the thought of out of his mind. He had tried so hard that his jaw hurt. His breathing became labored. The scent which he had worshipped a moment ago was now churning his stomach. Everything in the room had became unbearable. He had to leave or he would die in it. The spin in his head stopped when he felt ice on his cheeks.

He found himself looking into a pair of cold amethyst. He blinked. Unsure of what he had seen. The flicker of warmth he caught sight of might just be his own reflection. The faint heat he had felt from the clammy palms holding his face might just be his imagination. He was afraid that the focus might stray from him once more.

He rubbed his face against the palms and turned to nuzzle in them as they start to warm to his temperature. Shaking fingers brushed pass his ears and held the back of his head, pulling him closer. He needed these. He had almost thought that he would never get to know the feeling of being needed.

He lifted a leg over his shoulder and leaned forward, earning a lustful moan. The constricting heat burnt him. He began his ride. His head whirled in delirium. He felt the climaxing contractions as the body beneath him shuddered and coated his hand with warm seed. A frisson of ecstasy shot through him when he came...

He opened his eyes to the unoccupied side of the bed. The sheets lacked warmth when he touched them. Emptiness flooded. He plopped into his pillow and stared at the ceiling. It was silent now that the rain had stopped. He sat up and reached for his pack when he saw a figure, silhouetted by the Moon's light, leaning against the window.

He studied it for as long. Whitish smoke drifted upwards from the bright orange tip of the remaining cigarette. But they never did make it to the ceiling. He wrapped himself in the comforter and walked towards the window. He stood watching pale skin glimmer under the silvery light. He was set to memorize the relief of the aged scars.

He opened his arms, spreading the comforter and encircled his arms, still holding the piece of quilted bedcover, around the chilled body. He tightened his embrace, feeling the coldness melting away. He rested his chin on a shoulder and looked out the window. Time passed in their silence. The figure was unmoved.

He was about to think himself a fool when the stub was snubbed on the sill and the arm retreated into the cover. Icy digits clasped on his arm. The weight that was leaning on the window had shifted onto him. Unreal. He had thought these were. But he could only savor these moments he had now before they became real...

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~End~


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